Tea (but alas, no sympathy) and Toast

Tea and Toast Feb 2014

The view from my bed; my carbed out raisin toast, my mint (and honey) tea in my FOLLIES revival mug, my book, and all the clashing florals and chintzes and such that help me pretend I’m a down on my luck Englishman – instead of just a down on my luck asshole in a basement in Maryland.

Obviously I have not yet managed to slog myself out of this Tennessee as Blanche Blues in which I am mired. Last night, I was in bed with book by 9p.m., nibbling on cinnamon-sugar, raisin-bread toast, sipping mint tea with honey, reading a novel in which happy-ending, impossible-but-fated-to-be romances ruled the day. This comforted me at the same time it irritated me, because I absolutely do not – I cannot – for even one second now allow myself to believe that the sort of “in-love” coupling described ever has been or ever will be possible for me and yet, I WANT it to be, I believed it could be, I still some days think it was except for the inability of the other(s) to get with the script, and as it is described, I cast the scenarios in my head in my life – bad habit, that – and must constantly be reminding myself that “no olds” and “gym bodies only” and “prefer big dicks” and “hate the book” (oh wait, that’s a different rejection story) is the reality of my life.

I wanted a light read. I ended up hibernating/hiding in my faux English atmosphere feeling even worse than I had. (I will actually write about the book later, when I am not blaming it for my DuBois Dolor.)

Other things NOT helping:

I’m too lazy to shave. I can barely get myself to make a cup of tea. I hate it when I don’t shave. But, too lazy. How is it I can get to the gym but I can’t shave? And, why do I care that someone at the gym might see my scruffy and decide I don’t look good? No one at the gym sees me UN-SCRUFFY and decides I look GOOD. When I am at the gym I am wrapped in over-sized sweat pants and sweatshirt – with a hood, which I have up – so no one can see my face and so I don’t have to see anyone else. If I really gave a fuck about looking good I wouldn’t be having two carb-heavy, butter slathered slices of cinnamon and SUGAR toast at 10pm at night. Not helping my ass. Or stomach. Or gym body. So, shaving? Whatever.

Yesterday the gentleman mechanic called to tell me that not only would my car and its new un-slashed tires NOT be ready yesterday (and I really didn’t care about that) but that while working on replacing its rear-plate bulb, the housing had disintegrated, and, even better, when working on the undercarriage to replace part of the exhaust, two of those pipes had done the same. He wondered if prior to my purchase, the car had lived “up North” in snowy, salty weather because it is a rusting mess. Oh goody. Final, terrifying sentence; “So, I had to order some of those parts, they’ll be in tomorrow morning, don’t worry too much I’m gonna try to work with you and help you out with the cost.” Uhm, it was already $3000 – we are WAAAYYYYYY past you working with me or helping me out. Or, me NOT worrying. I’m worried, Sir. WORRIED.

I have had a headache for almost a week now. Not a bad one, really, just this sort of low-grade, off and on, won’t leave me alone thing, and yesterday, it really wouldn’t leave me alone.

I went to the gym yesterday (trying – and it helped me justify that raisin toast later) because I spent so many hours cleaning on Tuesday, I hadn’t gotten there, and I want to get back into my every day habit. However, I have the Mother unit today and likely won’t make it back in time to go and even if I do, the sauna is AGAIN out-of-order. I know this is a problem of a luxurious life, but the gym really is my “luxury” item and working out/cardio truly is what keeps me off psychotropic drugs – as in, I wouldn’t be all Tennessee as Blanche Blue if I hadn’t been skipping so many days – BUT I REALLY NEED THE SAUNA! I go to the gym at carefully chosen times, times I have discovered that few other men are there, and my FAVORITE PART is finishing, taking a quick shower to de-sweat myself, and heading into the empty sauna – because there is NEVER (rarely) anyone in it but me, and I stretch out and pretend it is mine, all mine, and it really helps my back and my everything else. I NEED THAT SAUNA TO BE REPAIRED and, again alas, the repair is not scheduled to happen until mid-next-week. DAMMMIT.

So, I suppose, I will run the Mother-unit all over today. I know we’ve at least three items on the agenda. Then, unless he’s discovered even more things that MUST be repaired, I will visit the Gentleman Mechanic and give him all the money I had budgeted to get me through the next eight months of “fun and extras” – oh well, who needs FUN or EXTRA? – and then I will come home, hide and hibernate again with some tea and – SHIT – I am out of raisin bread.

FML. Whining brat.

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